


When Trouble Comes to town

by Damalia (Achrya)



Category: Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - John Wick (Movies) Setting, M/M, Mystery, Violence, peter still has powers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-19
Updated: 2019-05-19
Packaged: 2020-03-07 15:27:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,042
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18875959
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Achrya/pseuds/Damalia
Summary: Murder is Tony’s business and business is...generally boring as fuck. But when Obadiah asks for a favor Tony agrees. Sure, killing some nobody fifteen year old student is beneath him but for his mentor he doesn’t mind. Much. And then it turns out to be more interesting than expected.





	When Trouble Comes to town

**Author's Note:**

> The start of a thing that I’m unsure about continuing, or where it would go aside from dirty dirty Starker sex, but is complete enough as it is to show off.

Murder was a booming industry. By Tony’s best estimation killing people, be it by the military,the government in the name of punishment, or by a fed up wife for a couple grand, was a sector that rivaled ‘above board’ business and technology with the sheer amount of money that went into it. It had always been like that: as long as there had been humans there had been humans who wanted people dead and were willing to pay to make it happen, and that was especially true in the interconnected assassination network. There were more of them out there than ever and Tony would know. His great grandfather had subsidized and run the first Continental Hotel in America and passed it onto Tony’s grandfather who passed it onto Tony’s father. Tony remembered where the people who came through were a much small number, the names of everyone known to him, and there were always stories for him to hear. 

Which, in hindsight, was probably not a good thing. His mother had been right to try to leave when Tony was young, to get them away the legacy of death that followed the Stark name. It hadn’t happened, for reasons Tony wasn’t too sure about, and then his parents had both been dead and the hotel had passed onto Obadiah who had taken the East Coast branch of their ‘community’ to new heights. The hotel had been rebuilt from the ground up (and under), bigger and better, with facilities the rest of the world envied, and some of the best inhouse support anyone could ask for. He’d streamlined a lot of the processes, revamped payment and the way contractors worth was determined, made things more...modern, for lack of a better word. 

A lot of the other Continentals about the world had followed suit and Obadiah had gained power, enough to set up another one of the West Coast where he now spent most of his time.  

There days it wasn’t uncommon for every room to be sold out and to see new faces on the rare occasions Tony got the urge to drift through. 

So yeah, business was at an all time high but most of that business was worthless. Tony didn’t get out bed for petty shit and a good 85% of the jobs these days were just that. That meant the competition for the good jobs, the ones that could bring in not just currency but increase your status, put weight behind your name, and make your coins spend for more in the community were also at an all time high. Everyone was always scraping and backbiting for the next *big* score, keeping their eyes glued to the classified ads in hopes of catching those code words that promised a name making, or boosting, challenge. 

Even Tony himself, who didn’t work as much as he used to, kept an eye out for something that might pose a challenge. There wasn’t much that could catch his eye these days, he’d done well for himself when he was younger and could have gone the rest of his life without taking another job if he wanted (to say nothing of the fortune he’d inherited) so money didn’t motivate him. He’d done the impossible a few times over, defied death when it suited him, made it so people talked about him in hushed whispers, and put some of the best into the ground along the way. 

Tony was good, one of if not the best contractors alive, and people knew it. He had fucking murder groupies for fucks sake, giggling boys and girls who somehow found a foothold into the business but were still at the bottom of the heap, high on the excitement and money that seemed in abundance when they were just starting, and all too eager to spend a night with someone above them, in hopes of making connections or just being able to say they’d gone to bed with The Winter Soldier, The Widow, or The Iron Man. They called him the Merchant of Death and told, slightly inaccurate, tales of how he’d singlehanded wiped out the Ten Rings and the Mandarin. 

He was kind of a big deal, in the shady underworld sense. 

And yet here he was, squatting in some tiny apartment that looked like Ikea and Target had puked all over the walls and furniture, in Queens of all places, watching his teenage prey scramble up a fire escape to climb into a darkened apartment. 

It was pathetic. Tony was honestly a little offended that he was even there, doing this, when he could have been on his third glass of whisky at Lucky’s, or balls deep in some tittering, wideeyed coked up newbie who’d probably be dead within the month, or at least drinking beers and talking guns with Rhodey. This shit, staking out a fifteen year old so he could then go in and kill the kid, was shameful. 

Not because Tony had an issue with killing kids or anything like that. He’d abandoned morals and righteousness and his sense of decency at the tender age of fourteen, when he’d wiped out the entire family of the man who’d set up his parents to be killed. He didn’t go around killing kids as a hobby or a way of life or anything, and generally found that sort of crap didn’t pay well or offer any fun, but he also couldn’t say he’d never done it. 

There were no good guys in his business, no objectors who only killed the evil and protected the innocents. It didn’t work like that. 

No, Tony’s issue was that he was above this. Way above. He’d been born above this. 

So why was he dashing across the slush filled street, cursing as filthy water seeped into the hem of his suit pants, glock 26 cool and heavy in its holster? 

A favor. Loyalty. Because one of the few people in the world who could ask him to carve out his own heart, faulty as it was, had called in one of his coins. Not that it needed, Tony would have done it without all the formality or money, but when Obadiah was serious he was serious, and he made sure everything was perfectly in order.

Tony had woken up, groggy, mouth fuzzy and nose burning, wedged between a particularly buxom girl and a well built boy, with near identical elfin features right down to slightly pointed ears and long wavy dark hair, and a disapproving Pepper Potts standing over him. Which was frightening even to Tony; Ms Potts was, aside from being unfairly stunning, intelligent, and hyper-competent, absolutely worthy of her assistant/bodyguard title. He’d once see her take out the tires of a sports car going at least a hundred miles per hour with a pistol from thirty yards, without breaking a sweat or even twitching. 

Once he’d seen his visitors out, had some coffee and bitched at Jarvis for letting Pepper in without waking him up (what did he even have security for if they just let people come and go as they pleased? Honestly.) Obadiah’s assistant had dropped a golden coin in front of him and told him his mentor had a job for him. A simple one, very straightforward. Obadiah had a friend who needed someone killed, in a way that wouldn’t link back to them, and wanted as few people as involved as possible. They wanted it not just in house, but In House, so quiet that even the usual methods of finding a contractor wouldn’t do. The mystery buyer had gone straight to Obie, who had come straight to Tony via Pepper, and even Ms. Potts hadn’t actually known what was going on, equipped with only the coin and a sealed envelope for Tony. 

Inside had been barebones information, explaining the situation and then giving him what he needed to know about the target. Peter Parker, age fifteen, student at Midtown School of Science and Technology, with a few science fair ribbons under his belt, a stated interest in biochem and biophysics. Parents, scientists working for Oscorp, killed in a car crash, uncle recent died in a bodega robbery, only surviving family was one very overworked aunt. He’d gone missing a few days ago but the matter had been waved off by the cops as the typical troubled, anti social runaway deal. 

That was it. No reason this kid to die was given but, then, Tony rarely knew that whys. His job didn’t require that sort of information and getting caught up in the minute details would only muddy things up. Tony liked to keep things crystal clear, so he could see the solution at a glance. 

In this case it was easy. Hang out around the kids apartment, waiting for him to show up because a kid like that? Would eventually show, for clothes or food or just to leave a note for his aunt, he was too good a kid not to. Then Tony would slip into the apartment, kill the kid, mess the place up, take a few things so it looked like a robbery, and be on his way. Easy. Clean. The sort of thing he’d done dozens of times when he was young and new and doing mindless grunt work. 

Boring. 

Except after silently picking the lock (he’d bust it in on his way out, so entry looked forced, but he didn’t want to make any noise just yet) and pushing open the door to get the job done and over with, he found himself just barely dodging a baseball bat swung at his head. He ducked, cringing in disbelief when the wood bat hit the wall and splintered from the impact, though not without leaving an impressive dent in the plaster. 

What was this kid, a MLB player?

A small MLB player, short and willow, with big scared brown eyes and a trembling lower lip, all taken in by Tony in an instant. He pivoted away as the kid dropped the ruined bat, drew a knife from the sheath built into the lining of his coat smoothly and-

The kid was fast, spun on his feet and lashed out, albeit clumsily, and managed to hit the inside of his wrist. Normally something like that wouldn’t be enough to give Tony even a moment of pause. He’d keep moving through the pivot, use mis momentum and ability to get past his prey’s defenses and drive the knife home. But he also wasn’t used to someone hitting him so hard his arm snapped back and went temporarily numb. The knife dropped from nerveless fingers with a muffled clatter and Tony bit back a noise of pain as pins and needles erupted under his skin. Another hit followed while Tony was reeling, an ugly punch to his chest that drove all the air form his chest, made it bloom with white hot pain and staggered Tony. He wheezed, only half in shock, and wondered frantically if it was possible something had been knocked loose. 

He felt like it might have been. 

Did this kid have a hand made of steel or something? How could he hit that hard, and with a weak form and loose fist at that? And move so fast? Too fast, he’d reacted to Tony pulling his knife like he’d been expecting it. 

The kid blinked at him with those impossibly wide eyes, looked down at the knife, then back at Tony, frozen. Tony considered the kid, trembling with fear like a spooked animal, then lunged forward. This time he was ready, was paying closer attention to the way he moved. The kid moved left, tried to avoid him and Tony was following before he’d even shifted his weight, lowered his shoulder and slammed into him as hard as he could manage, crushing him into the wall with a crack and a high pitched shout. Picture frames jumped from the wall and crashed to the ground, glass shattering over the floor. 

Well. 

At least he wouldn’t have to worry about making it look like someone had come in and messed the place up. 

The kid squirmed and flailed, drove a few good knees and elbows into Tony but he was nothing if not able to take some hits. Oh, it hurt like hell, and one wild fist to the nose had him tasting blood on his tongue, but Tony Stark was a fucking professional, and a fucking professional did not get beat up by a skinny fifteen year old science nerd. 

He’d never be able to show his face outside of his penthouse again if he let that happen. A man had to have standards. 

He managed to wrestled the kid down to the floor with, hopefully, only a broken nose, maybe a cracked rib or two, and a lot of sore spots in the process and, with one knee pinning an arm down, the other twisted awkwardly and trapped under the kid’s body, and one of Tony’s hands around the kid’s thin throat, drew his gun. It probably took thirty seconds all told but it felt like so much longer and Tony was panting by the end, heart beating like he’d just run a 5k with Falcon and Cap and, ugh, sweating in his custom Brioni. It was such a pain getting one of these outfitted with a tac lining and all the holstering and pocketing for weapons, and now he was sweating and bleeding on it. It wasn’t like he could take it to a normal cleaner either, could he? 

No, he was going to have to go to the hotel and turn it over to Coulson, who was going to be absolutely insufferable.

Wonderful. 

The sight of the gun made the kid stop fighting in favor of going statue still and, eyes growing even wider, whimpering pitifully. He looked, Tony noted as he glared down at him, so damn innocent, like he couldn’t hit like a mac truck and didn’t have reflexes anyone in the job would envy. And cute, was too fucking cute, with his wobbling lip and watering eyes, those messy brown curls damp with sweat, throat bobbing under Tony’s tight grip. His body was lean under Tony’s but firmer than he would have expected considering the profile; Tony was straddling his chest and could feel hard muscle shifting beneath. 

Pale skin, unblemished by anything but tear tracks as watery eyes spilled over, pink lips held firm between straight teeth. 

Cute. 

“Please, please, don’t hurt me!” The kid sputtered. Tony sighed. Begging. He hated begging. He tried to kill people before they had a chance to do it and couldn’t make things weird. It was awkward, honestly, having grown men drop to their knees, start blubbering, and promising everything they owned in hopes he’d be swayed. 

Thought he had to give the kid credit, he hadn’t wet himself yet. That was always embarrassing. 

Something on Tony’s face must have given away how unmoved he was because the kid started crying harder, cheeks going pink and splotchy and eyes squinting up. It should have been ugly but, actually, still kind of cute. 

“I didn’t do anything wrong!” Most people hadn’t, in Tony’s experience. “I was just delivering food, you know? I have this part time job, to help out my Aunt May, since things have been so tight since my Uncle Ben died and I just-it’s just a stupid after school thing. I’m not even supposed to do deliveries, just wash dishes, because of my age but the other guy was gone and-” Tony tilted his head to the side, lips quirking up against his will. Why was he listening to some stupid, dead but not yet accepting it, kid babble like this? 

If he hurried up he could get home, call the Doc to patch him up, change, and still hit Lucky’s before things got crowded and loud. 

“-and I didn’t know touching that stuff would make me like this! It’s not like I like it! I mean, the being really strong and fast part is kind of cool, I guess, but the headache whenever something bad is about to happen is pretty disorienting, honestly, and being able to hear people talking two apartments over is just a pain.” He pouted. “I heard Old Lady Tex having sex last week. She calls her husband ‘kitten’ and I think she way...spanking him.” 

“Scandalous.” Tony drawled and indeed the kid looked scandalized. 

“They’re 80! It’s...weird.”  He was pink all the way to the tips of his ears. “She used to babysit me! And make me cookies on the weekends! You can’t bake cookies and call your husband a naughty kitten, it’s just...against the rules.” 

Tony snorted. Mentally scolded himself for being amused then frowned, quickly going over had come before the kid’s horrified tales of elder kink. Super strong. Super fast. Hearing people two apartments over and-

“What was that about headaches?” 

“The- um.” Brown eyes flicked over to the gun then back to Tony’s face. “When bad stuff is about to happen my head kinda goes all...woosh? Throbby and my vision doubles and it's like alarms are going off, but there’s no sound, and I just know something is going to happen. That’s how I avoided all those other guys with guns-” Other guys? That wasn’t in the write up. “And knew you were here and were going for your knife and-” 

Tony moved his head from the kid’s throat to his mouth and, ignoring the muffled protest, furrowed his brow in thought. 

This was...interesting. 

It had been a while since Tony had come across anything truly interesting. 

It would be a waste to just kill the kid off now, wouldn’t it?

He could just do it later. After he asked a few questions.

Tony stood slowly, but kept his gun trained on the boy. Who was going from pink to very red and no longer staring at Tony’s face but at his- Ah. He smirked and, winking, reached down to readjust his cock in his pants. 

“Get up kid. I have some questions and if you answer them right I might not shoot you tonight.” 

Probably not. 


End file.
